The Muse prolific of a Vet'ran Bard
Again brings forth;—but yet with labour hard.
Nor is it strange, that such a Muse feels pain,
When her child starts, like Pallas, from the brain,
Arm'd at all points; when bold, she dares engage,
With Truth's bright arms, the monsters of the age;
When with just aim she points keen Satire's dart,
And stabs the foul fiend GAMING to the heart.

Yet has our Bard, to simple Nature true,
Not brought up scenes of grandeur to your view;
Not sought by magic arts to strike your eyes,
Nor made the gods descend, or fiends arise:
His plan is humble, and his fable plain,
The town his scene, and artless is his strain:
Yet in that strain some lambent sparks still glow
Of that bright flame which shew'd Almeyda's woe,
Which far-fam'd Tamor's Siege so well display'd,
To fire each hero, and to charm each maid.

Attend, ye Fair and Brave!—Our daring Bard
Hopes in your smiles to meet his best reward.
And you, ye Critics! if to censure bent,
Think on this fact, and scorn the harsh intent;
Our Bard would fain discordant things unite,
As hard to reconcile as day and night:
He strives within chaste Hymen's bands to draw
The tuneful maids and sages of the law;
Or, what's alike—nor think he means a joke—
Melpomene to wed with old judge Coke.
Yet still, if you'll not let his faults pass free,
The Grecian rev'rence pay to sixty-three.